it seems like the sole purpose of 90% of your lines is to simply fit in rhymes. we modern poetry readers find much more interest in solid ideas than meter

i like this idea, but you're regurgitating the concept everyone envisions the judeo-christian god to be. let's see you take some liberty with him. really capture his loneliness and his longing for companionship (and definitely embrace, but loathe and resent, the non-believers). humanize him (aren't we in his image?), but set him extrinsically apart (and thus still lonely, but pleased with his creation). that's what i like to see, along with the first line definitely cut

remember rule 1 of all writing:

SHOW; don't tell

For sure. Yeah, the first poem was definately all meter, I had never tried it before because I enjoy freeverse so much more. Youre right, it needs substance.

The second was pretty much staked out on an idea. I liked the idea of giving an omniscient being human flaw. (we are in his image. ) Thanks, I agree, cut the first line for sure, and she needs more emotion... Greuzi for the help senor...

Cool! yeah. I like keeping the same idea for 100 pages or so. lately i've had serious writer's block. so, I've been playing the poetry game. But I'm working on two novels. One I'm really proud of. I might post an excerpt on a different thread if I find one to allow...

hahahaa! oh touche. well, that would be most. There is something to be said for falling deep into a storyline, and then reading that one paragraph that you have to stop and think about for a while. When I write, that's what I go for. I have an easier time making metaphors run into a plot than as stand alone. But I do appreciate poetry (obviously). Huge Whitman fan.

Small remains of a cracked face
disfigured in vain
stare hypnotized, captivated by
The invisible pain
that distorts the confines of reality.

Quote:

Originally Posted by im so fly

As i sit inside your empty heart,
I know that whatsoever is keeping me
Must just be myself,
However i know that my boundaries
Are in my conscience, forever, and always

Let me know what you think?!

no meaningful images, no novel thoughts, no argument, no motion

sure, you are doing one part of the poet's job, which is to express a part of themselves, and it's usually a longing, hurt, or self-deprecation. still, you need to do it in a meticulously pensive and innovative medium

pick up some the last few years of the best american poetry (edited by lehman) and keep reading until you think you can write. then keep writing until you know you're doing something right

Spittin out Word documents like a secretary with a sack of crack.
I beat the spell check, my papers half red but I KNOW its all correct.
To me it all makes sense, and maybe in the future cents,
The CSI tech inspect is hard.... respect.

my frustrations with microsoft word not knowing words like frontosphenoid, or zygomaticomaxillary..........

I redid this after going camping this weekend with my two best buds. Gotta love camping in the mountains!

Standing here – in this place,
A mosaic of blending qualities surrounds,
It turns it tumbles.
Crying gently only to make a slight whisper.
Rock formations full of grace and stubbornness.
Air that serenades a scent so crisp,
That it opens the pathways of breath deep within.
Crystal lakes acting as if windows to the depth,
The sun mirrors a reflection of great remembrance.
Three figures manifest from ripples.
Each ripple another story, spreading wider across the plain of water.
Till one day, where the ripples cease.
Yet the three figures still remain.

On Northbound ground,
bugs scurry, sad, I haven't the noun.
What's the hurry? a glint.
I look. Where's the frown?
I cannot propound, the loud
nature, of a glint such as this.

Eye the very spot,
see the very ghost,
of cars that fret,
cars that can't
and cars in lent.
Cars that scream.
Cars that dream.
Cars that gleam:
"I'm here—!,"
but now you're gone,
And all I've left
is the scent
of the glint
that says:

"I'm here!,"
but now you're gone.

I am

so many roads running run ning run
ning
there are
so many roads
yet to travel have I

Yes too travelled am I
am so many roads
there are
too many roads,
in my eyes,
walk away, you have
too many roads
blocking my eyes.

Sung Virtue

O Siren so Sweet as Sound that Tweets so Round
Propound O! Siren that fire and
Rage of beauty called fluency
with words of Muses
with the rhythm of life.

Kind words, spoke notes that wrote
tails of Greatness
and love,
but Greatness,
and Virtue,

Virtue, a word too german for you.
Helen knew you better, when she,
the collective soul of Greece,
uttered the first word,
the first name,
the first
Sound,
Spoken, she was round,
by Plato’s words,
Broad verbs,
accompanying
such curves.

Ah ret eh,
She glides grace.

Songs Still Sung

Some sliding sun graceful of flipping woes and goes
zealous they sell us serenades
singing songs of glass
unsung sons giving maize
to cousins and brothers and glibs
Isabella: lemmings, lemons—
name us words we can sing to dance laugh to
two by two too far for us
woe is us that cannot rot
for we go on
what gluttons sought
and hoped would give them thought—
but gave us naught but nothing.

Hope For The Lonely

Two parallel roads
At a lover’s cross
Ache melancholy disdain
That the fierce urgency of now
That omnipotent ever present pounding
Fear for flippant passes of time
Is neither urgent, fierce, nor now
And that
At a lover’s cross
Two parallel roads
Have been made
To their own perplexity
Perpendicular grace.